


A Marvelous Delicacy

by lammermoorian



Series: sastiel drabs [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Musician Castiel, Nobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having taken up his new post as a musician in the household of the Earl of Winchester, Castiel Milton finds that his new employer holds many secrets, not the least of which is the mysterious illness befalling his youngest son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know way, way too much about 18th century music patronage. Might have a sequel, but don't hold your breath.

At long last, Castiel's days of traveling are ended. Though his lodgings are bare, he is provided for, and wants for very little. The Earl of Winchester has many fine instruments - plenty of violins, Italian harpsichords, even a new fortepiano, a rare treasure indeed. Castiel cannot wait to play each and every one. As per his contract, he is given full access to the Earl of Winchester's library and musical instruments, provided he produces enough concerts and compositions to satisfy his new master, an access of which he is taking advantage at this very moment, foregoing unpacking his things in exchange for rifling through the library. The Earl of Winchester is clearly a man of popular tastes; the man has scores by Mr. Haydn, the young Mr. Bach, Mr. Scarlatti, and even the young Mr. Mozart, though nestled in between are compositions by the elder Mr. Bach, or operas by Mr. Handel. He is taking the opportunity to flip through a composition by Mr. Stamitz, reduced for four hand piano, so thoroughly entranced and absorbed that he doesn't notice the Earl of Winchester's son leaning against the frame of the door, watching him with an odd look upon his face, until much later than he should have.

"Lord Winchester!" Castiel jumps up from his seat, nearly dropping the score in the process, "I apologize, I did not hear you come in - 

The viscount just laughs, arms folded across his chest. "No, no, do not worry. It is good to see you so invested in your literature; this is the mark of a true musician, so I hear."

"Yes, well," he stammers, clutching the manuscript to his chest as though it were a shield, "I apologize for my unintended rudeness, sir."

"I accept your apology, and all is forgiven," he says, clapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Now, come along." He turns on his heel, beckoning Castiel with a wave of his hand, and Castiel hastily tucks the Stamitz back into its box, hurrying after him.

"Yes, sir."

Lord Winchester has a long stride, tearing down the long hallways of the estate as though he were in a race, though his face is uncomplicated and his manner carefree. "My father has asked me to see to your accommodations, I trust they are adequate?"

"Oh, yes, sir," replies Castiel, struggling to keep apace, "I can think of few things which would make my stay here more pleasant. Your home is very beautiful." Situated in the rolling hills of northern England, the manor rests just on the edge of a great forest to the East, with miles of meadows stretching to the western horizon. The house is kept tidy with apple orchards and blankets of wildflowers, mossy stone and sweet little streams, like veins through the countryside. Castiel can see it all from his window, every morning and evening. 

"The Lord has indeed blessed us with this beautiful land," says Lord Winchester with fondness, "but in truth, it was my mother, may God rest her soul, whose vision brought it to life." He bows his head, crosses himself in remembrance of the dead.

Castiel does as well, touching his thumb to his lips. "She must have been a very kind and loving woman," he murmurs, "if the beauty of your estate is any indication of the beauty of her soul. Whenever I eat an apple from your orchard, I shall pray for her soul, in thanksgiving," he promises.

"An oath for which I thank you, most profoundly." Lord Winchester smiles. "Apples were always her favorite." 

"Pardon me, sir," Castiel asks as they turn yet another corner, "but might I inquire as to where we are going?" The setting sun has passed beneath the line of the horizon, the chill of autumn twilight already settling in. This wing of the manor is old, and cold, and dusty, with rough-hewn stone walls and wooden floors. The forest creeps towards the manor as though it were Dunsinane, so close and thick that one could not open a window for want of hitting a branch.

"Well," the viscount leads him up a flight of stairs, steep and worn by time, "you have met my father, of course, and myself, and we are both delighted to have you in our family's employ. We look forward to the excellent concerts and sublime compositions which you will surely produce. However, there is one more member of my family you have yet to meet."

They stop in front of a wooden door, dark and heavy, a plan cross of wood and metal nailed to its center, and Lord Winchester knocks, twice. There is silence on the other side, but for the rustling of sheets. Then, a voice coughs, and softly calls out, "Come in!"

Lord Winchester pushes open the door, its hinges creaking from the cold. Inside is a bedroom, small but cozy, with a merrily roaring fire in the hearth. The walls are lined with bookshelves, each stuffed to the brim with tomes of varying sizes, haphazardly pushed together and stacked upon each other. In the small bed is a young man, younger than the viscount, deathly pale and propped up by many pillows, a heavy quilt laid over his feet. On his lap is an open book, but the young man is not reading it; rather, he stares slack-jawed at the open door, eyes soft and unfocused. "Hey ho, little brother," says Lord Winchester, so soft and tender. He rushes to the young man's side, takes up his hand and places a gentle kiss upon his palm. "I'm here now. Big brother is here."

"Dean?" whispers his brother, fearfully. "It is not yet supper, I don't..." he trails off, confused. "Who is..."

"Come in, Mr. Milton," orders the viscount, and Castiel steps inside. "Mr. Milton, this is my younger brother, Samuel. Sammy," he addresses the young man, squeezes his hand tight. "This is our new kappellmeister."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," says Castiel, though he suspects that the young man does not quite hear him. 

Samuel curls into his brother's side, hiding in the fabric of his shirt. "Now, now," says Dean, one hand in his hair, "Mr. Milton is nothing to be afraid of! Father knows how much you've missed music in this house, ever since Mr. Smith went away, so he hired a new musician, just for you!" He strokes his brother's hair, speaking lowly and softly. "We'll have concerts all the time, now, just like when we were little. You'll like that, won't you, darling?"

The young man shivers, whispers something into Dean's arm which Castiel cannot hear. "Shh," shushes the older brother, "hush now. I promise you that he is real. You believe me, don't you?" Samuel nods, and Dean takes his hand again, squeezes it tight. "Listen to me, Sam. Stone number one, remember?" He pauses, looks to the intruder in the room. "Mr. Milton? Would you mind stepping outside for a moment, please?"

"O-of course." Grateful for the opportunity to escape, Castiel slips outside, closing the heavy door as gently as he can behind him. He'd never heard any tell of the Earl of Winchester having a younger son, and now he can see why - the poor child, plagued by illness and waking nightmares each day. What a dreadful existence that must be. His heart is so full of pity, and as he glances again upon the cross, he sends a quick prayer to God for the young man's mind, though He must have heard pleas for this child's soul for many years now, and one more shall, in all probability, not make much of an impact.

After some time, Dean steps out, calling into the room his farewells. "I shall return with dinner soon, Sammy," he says, with a smile on his face. "Try to get some rest? For me?" He shuts the door softly, then lays his head upon it, sighing. "I'm so sorry you had to see that," he mutters into the wood, shoulders slumping. "He was... he was fine this morning, he was eating breakfast and telling me all about Mr. Shakespeare's _Hamlet_. I thought... I had hoped he would have stayed like that when he met you." He drags a hand over his face, covers his mouth as though he were holding something in - a sob, or perhaps merely his lunch.

"Please, sir," says Castiel, "do not feel as though you need to apologize to me for anything. I am merely sorry that your brother is so ill. Tell me," he takes Dean gently by the elbow, leads him away from his brother's room. The hallway is long and dark and frightening, almost, like the scene of a bedtime story meant to put the fear of God into a child. The air is heavy and weighs on them both, Dean's countenance changing as soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs, turning from the old and dark stone tower to the new, warm, house. "Has he always been like this?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, poor thing. As a child he was always so energetic, so bright and precocious, always running about and getting into trouble. Mind you," he says, his half-grin easing the deep lines of sadness on his young face, "he never got into any sort of trouble without me there to get him out again, after our schemes had so totally and eventually failed." Castiel can almost picture it; the two children running about the fields, climbing trees and stealing the choicest of apples, dodging the troubles of tutors and valets in favor of endless summer days. "And then, when my mother passed away... he was different. I'm not certain I can explain it."

"I am sorry that I asked you to relive such painful memories, sir," says Castiel, heart in his throat. He remembers very vividly his father's disappearance, remembers how his brothers and sisters had never quite been the same afterwards. The loss of a parent can be worse than any battle wound, and he knows this very intimately. 

"It's important that you know," admits Dean. "Sometimes... sometimes Sammy sees things - hallucinations, you know. Fire and demons and other such monsters. On bad days, he will not be certain whether he is awake or asleep, whether or not anything he sees is real." Dean rubs at his mouth again, draws in a shaking breath. "He has nightmares, near constantly. He'll be anxious and sorrowful one minute, then have the rage of a fury the next, then have the sweetness of a cherub. But," and here Dean places a hand on Castiel's shoulder, looks him in the eye. "He loves music. He likes the Italian school of opera, yet his favorite air is from Mr. Handel's _Messiah_. Harpsichord pieces may give him headaches, but before Mr. Smith passed on, Sam had loved to hear him play the fortepiano."

"I will keep that in mind, sir."

"Do you understand what I am asking you?" Castiel sees in him, suddenly, a vision of his own eldest brother, Michael, sees the same determination and the same instinct to protect, yet tempered with the sweetness of love and devotion. "As I grow older, my father is asking more of me, for which I am happy to help. But I refuse to leave my little brother alone to his waking nightmare. Can you be there for him? Can you talk with him, give him whatever he asks for?"

"Yes," promises Castiel. "I can, and I will, Lord Winchester, for I am an elder sibling myself."

Dean searches his gaze, and must find something which he likes, for after a time he nods, lips pursed, as if coming to a decision. "Well," he removes his hand, straightening his jacket. "I suppose that's it, then."

"Yes, sir." They shake hands, and go their separate ways. Later that night, as Castiel watches the moon climb ever so slowly, listening to what he hopes is the shrieking wind of autumn, he finds he cannot sleep, his thoughts turning at every silence to the young man in the western wing, how pale and fragile he looked, how fearful and miserable his life must be. If Castiel can help to relieve that pain, however little his effort may be useful, then he will know that God has answered his prayers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write a part 2 so quickly, but here I am. I totally blew my load the first time around, though, so sorry.

Sam is scared of him for a few days, a fact which cuts Castiel to his very soul. He prides himself on being an adequate caretaker, at the very least, having looked after many of his siblings while Michael was out working, yet for a while, the younger son of the Earl refuses to look at him. Should Castiel attempt to enter his room, Sam may hide under his covers, refusing to talk to him, or he may look but not see Castiel standing there, scratching at his arms absently, muttering Latin prayers under his breath. He does this with most, if not all of the servants, according to Dean, alternately hissing or weeping should any of them attempt to speak with him.

Castiel counts it among his some of his greatest accomplishments when, one winter morning, Sam greets him with a shining smile. 

Months later, as winter slowly transmutes to spring, Sam has steadily become more and more comfortable with his presence, even allowing him to assist whenever Sam is wracked with a waking nightmare, rather than running to fetch for his brother. "Good morning, Mr. Milton!" Says Sam, clad in his dressing clothes, and carrying the tray with the remains of his breakfast. It must be a good day - he rarely ever leaves his bed, let alone attempt to open the door of his own volition. Castiel stands aside to let him set it outside the door, for a maid to come and claim. Not for the first time, Castiel thinks it very sad that Sam's only human contact is his brother and his music master. "Isn't it such a beautiful day?" From his window facing the East, the morning sun shines bright and clear, even though the thick trees attempt to obscure his view.

"Beautiful indeed, sir," replies Castiel, closing the door behind him and pulling up his customary chair. Sam enjoys it when Castiel writes in his company, enjoys listening to him humming bits of tunes as he tries to capture lightning in a bottle.

Sam shakes his head, climbing back into his bed, pushing his book to the side. "How many times must I tell you - please, do not feel as though you need to stand on ceremony with me, Mr. Milton. I had hoped," he smiles shyly, looking up at him through long lashes, "that you would know how much I value your companionship. Please, do call me 'Sam.'"

"It is improper," Castiel insists, smoothing out his manuscript. "I would show you the respect that a person of your stature sure deserves."

"My stature," he laughs, unkindly. "Of course." He arranges his bedcovers in the manner he finds most comfortable, settling in for a long day of reading. "Well, do be sure to ask my permission first if you need to leave, then." And with that, he sticks his nose into his book, studiously ignoring his companion.

Castiel does not take offense. He has learned, over the last months, that Sam's life is a lonely one, full of silence and tedium. He may as well have been a hermit, were it not for the staunch effort of Dean to spend as much time with him as he possibly could. The tempestuous moods of adolescence hold no sway over Castiel's opinion of him. "I shall, should I need to."

They work in companionable quiet, the rustle of Sam's pages accompanied by the scratching of Castiel's quill, and the occasional snatch of song. After some time, Sam sets aside his reading in favor of watching Castiel at work, thin arms hugging around his equally thin legs, his head rested upon his knees. Castiel can see him from the corner of his eye, of course, but chooses not to let it distract him. It is tragic, however, that this child who should have had a strong and healthy body, if the physical prowess of the rest of his family is anything to go by, is instead an invalid, shut up in his room for fear of the dangers of the outside world. Still, in tragedy there is always the beauty of the resiliency of the human spirit, a resiliency Castiel calls upon now to inspire his latest composition. "Your newest song is beautiful, master composer," sighs Sam, resting his head against his headboard. 

"I thank you, sir," he replies, bowing his head.

"Is this also from 'Galahad,' then?" Castiel has been working on this opera for quite some time now, taking his story from the French romances of Arthurian legend. Dean had requested this particular story from him, as the tale of Sir Galahad and his quest for the Grail was one of Sam's favorite stories.

"Indeed it is," he says, scratching a new set of staves. "This is an air for Miss Masters, who will be playing the part of Sir Galahad's sister." Margaret Masters is abrasive and demanding, but she has quite the distinguished soprano voice, lovely and light, yet deep enough for the purpose of this drama. At times, she is known to push and screech, but the two of them have been working closely in order to eradicate that habit.

Sam shivers. "Oh." He clutches at his sheets, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Is something wrong, sir?" Castiel has witnessed the transition from a good day to a bad day, before. Sometimes it is quick, as though he falls into a waking sleep. Sometimes, like this time, it is slowly, and he has yet a chance to save Sam from falling into his delusions, if he acts quickly. "What is it? Sam?" His young master inhales sharply through his nose, in and out, valiantly trying to quell the quick beating of his heart by measuring his breathing. Castiel chances a grab at his hand, holding the delicate fingers in his own, squeezing as he has seen Dean do. It is a bit of a gamble; sometimes Sam will scream, lash out at the unfamiliar touch. It seems to do the trick this time, as Sam squeezes back. "Tell me what is wrong, Sam."

It is as if all of the tension runs out of him like water, slumping over so suddenly that Castiel has to catch him before he hits his head, cradling him in his arms. "I don't like her," he murmurs, pliant as a doll as Castiel rearranges him upon his bed, drawing the covers over him.

"Miss Masters?"

Sam nods. 

"Whyever not? I know that she is not the kindest individuals, but - "

"She's a monster."

Castiel lays him on his side, taking his book from him and marking his page, resting it upon his side table, before his words register within Castiel's mind. "What do you mean?"

"She's a monster," he persists, eyes full of tears. "I don't know - I don't know how to explain. I just know that she, that sometimes her face is..." His jaw works soundlessly, searching for the right words, before he stops, his gaze turning glassy, unfocused. "But it matters not. You don't believe me."

He is right. Sam spouts nonsense more often than not, visions of devils and hellfire dancing round his mind, speaks of things so daft and unbelievable that it is difficult for anyone to take them as truth. But, despite all this, Castiel knows that what Sam needs now, more than friends, more than sunshine, more than his brother's support, is someone who believes him, believes his fairy tales and night terrors. 

In an act of pity, Castiel decides to humor him. "I do, Sam," he whispers, squeezing his hand again. "I know... I know what you say may seem strange to others, but not to me. I have faith you know your own mind."

"You do?" he asks, eyes tired.

"Yes. Now," he kneels at the side of the bed, looking up to Sam's face, so pale and afraid. "You tell me Miss Masters is a monster?" Sam nods. "Is she the only one?" If Sam is haunted by one monster, however fake, it stands to reason that he is haunted by more. Perhaps this will help him work out his fears of the unknown, and will assist Dean in knowing which servants will not send Sam into a spiral of terror. 

Sam shakes his head, small and shy. "No. There are more."

"Who? You can trust me," he says, leaning in, "I promise I won't tell anyone what I know."

He sniffs, rubs at his eyes. "I don't know. Rachel, the maid, I thought she was one, but... My old science tutor. He was one. Crowley, my father's attorney."

"Anyone else?" 

"Brady, the stablehand." His face twists, lip curling. "He's always been a monster."

Goodness - does the whole house serve as the cast for his nightmares? "Is - is your father a monster?" Sam shakes his head, biting his lip. "Your brother, perhaps?"

"No," he swears. He is angry, almost, the beginnings of a fury in his eyes that Castiel would even suggest such a thing. "Are you implying - ?"

"Nothing of the sort," Castiel insists softly. "I just wanted to be certain."

"Dean would never hurt me."

"I know." A thought strikes him suddenly, chilling him to his core. "Sam... am I - am I a monster?"

There is a moment of silence, thick and heady between them. Sam's face is so close, he realizes, close enough for Castiel to see the fullness of his lips, the beginnings of a fever flush on his cheeks, the strong etching of his dimples as Sam pulls out a weak smile. "Of course not. You're not a monster, Castiel." He whispers, as if disclosing a secret, and Castiel finds himself leaning in further. "You're an angel."

No, this is too far, Castiel cannot humor this delusion any further. "That is very flattering, sir," he says, "but I assure you, I am merely a mortal man." Sam's eyes flutter closed, exhaustion overtaking him, and Castiel knows he has caused this young man to exert himself far more than was necessary. "I will take my leave of you now, with your permission, and let you sleep." As he tries to go, Sam squeezes his hand one last time, keeping him there at the side of his bed.

"What do angels do?" He sighs, sliver of his multicolored eyes fixing Castiel to the spot.

"I... I confess, I do not know."

"They sing, master musician." And then he falls asleep, as quickly and quietly as the breath leaving a dying man's body.


End file.
